enter, the library

If my sister was driving, she had to be 16, which made me 11. So let's say I was 11 when she first drove me into Lancaster to the Free Public Library. All I have is a memory kaleidoscope of marble floors, high elegant ceilings, wide staircases, and heaven. I simply could not conceive of having that many books to peruse, let alone check out. We each got a little square cream-colored card with a metal clasp in the middle and a brown fitted envelope to slip it into for protection. Ticket to paradise.

Now, years later, all my library books are shuttled through technological portals - some by-passing paper and binding all together and it's slick, efficient and lightning speed.

But I will always remember the little girl from the country, who stood and gazed upon her first public library with eyes full of wonder, not believing the world was hers.

The magic lives on.

Written word.

A long-time library patron died a few days ago. She was the most loyal, passionate, enthusiastic lover of books all her life. In years past she was in a political position to help support keeping open the library that I managed - which was no small feat. But beyond that, she'd come in regularly and say, "What good book do have for me today?"

I didn't even know she was ill until last week; it's hard to keep track of everyone. But another friend told me she was very ill and now this week she is gone.

As I stopped in at the visitation before the funeral, on my way to work, I met her only son for the first time in the twenty plus years I had known her. His face was etched with sadness and my name meant nothing to him until I said, "I'm from the library." And where there were tears, a huge grin flashed across his face and he said, "Mom, loved the library!" And I said, "We loved your mom!".... and we were off and running through our stories.

Books. Friends. Tears to joy. Oh, the power.

Oh, the sensory bliss of it all

Aunt Jenny's date and nut pudding.

Those six words send saliva into my soul.

Each Christmas we always had a Weaver gathering of some sort, at some part of the holiday, and my mother's brother's wife, Jenny, made this concoction that would make angels blush - it was so slutty with goodness. I don't think it required any special finesse to make - just a mass of sugar, butter, dates, nuts, flour, milk, baking soda, lard, salt - tossed with whipped cream. She always served it in a deeply cut, exquisite glass bowl.

Sometimes it was dessert at the big Christmas dinner at noon but other times, for an early evening supper before folks wandered home, we'd have this exotically rich dessert - with savories on the side like cheese, bologna, celery, etc.. Though it was probably the calorie equivalent of breakfast, lunch, and dinner in regular times, each sumptuous spoonful of that mixture of cream, date, nut and pudding was ecstasy, pure and simple.

My sister recently sent me the recipe. I studied it for a moment and knew I would be feasting on memories alone! At this point in my life, if I made a whole recipe of that I'd be needing to circle the lake ten times daily to fit into my clothes, while begging my arteries not to collapse in horror.

But oh those blessed culinary memories - how deliciously they linger!